


Five For Country Music

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Car Sex, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek is a good teacher, Driving Lessons, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Home for Christmas, Idiots in Love, Insomnia, M/M, Miscommunication, Resolved Sexual Tension, Stiles is a bad driver, Unresolved Sexual Tension, excessive coffee consumption, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21822370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: //“Driving lessons?” Stiles tries to keep his voice level but doesn’t fully succeed. “I donotneeddriving—”He’s interrupted by John slamming a fistful of papers down on the coffee table between them, rattling the Santa figurine and the bowl of red and green M&Ms. Stiles glares at his father. John glares back. Stiles glares down at the table. Beneath John’s hand, sweaty and trembling with apoplectic rage, is a sizable stack containing, Stiles knows, numerous accident reports, several speeding tickets, two letters from their insurance company detailing their recently raised rates, a towing receipt, and more repair bills than Stiles cares to add up. He folds his arms and still manages to look insulted.“While the Jeep’s in the garage you’ll be working overtime — for me — to help pay for it,” John says. “Oh.And.”Stiles looks up. Oh.And.Oh god.“I’ve already hired your teacher.” John smiles. With teeth. “He’ll pick you up Monday morning at 8.”//Derek is a reluctant driving instructor. Stiles is a terrible driver. Christmas is coming and ‘tis the season for reunions, shenanigans, and puns. Lots of awful car puns.//
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 36
Kudos: 298
Collections: 12 Days of Sterek





	Five For Country Music

1\. Insomnia

The bulb at the front door burns and burns.  
If it were a white rose it would tire of blooming  
through another endless night.  
The moon knows the routine;  
it beats the bushes from east to west  
and sets empty-handed.  
Again the one  
she is waiting for has outrun the moon.

_~ Lisel Mueller, Five for Country Music_

//

“Isn’t it amazing how many suggestive car references are out there? Seriously. There are _so many_. And they’re _so awesome_.”  
_~Stiles Stilinski_

“No. They really aren’t.”  
_~Derek Hale_

//

The four-stroke engine is an internal combustion engine. The four strokes are: Suck, squeeze, bang, blow.

//

There's a tear in my beer  
'cause I'm crying for you dear  
you are on my lonely mind.  
_~Hank Williams_

//

In Stiles’ defense, the road is slippery with fresh ice rain and he is legitimately distracted. It’s December and it’s cold and it should be snowing because Christmas is two weeks away, but no, of course not. No snow for Stiles.

It’s just started raining — a treacherous time for driving, when water mixes with dust and oil on the asphalt’s surface, making it slick: he knows this for a _fact_ — and he’s _trying_ very hard to pay attention. He is. But there’s this _rainbow_ because the sky is half shrouded with ice and half sunny and it’s seriously the biggest goddamn rainbow he’s ever seen. And while he’s leaning over the steering wheel and craning his neck to get a better view while simultaneously trying to watch the car in front of him and keep the windshield wipers going at a steady pace — but they have a tendency to squeal when the windshield is even the tiniest bit too dry — and it’s really just spitting and god _damn_ that’s an amazing rainbow and he while he starts humming Rainbow Connection under his breath he thinks briefly — very briefly — about pulling over to grab his phone so he can take a quick photo but his brain-to-hand filter isn’t working too quickly and there’s a slick slide and a sickening crunch and a jolt and he’s rear-ended the tiny white Chevy Cruze in front of him.

Jesus fucking fuck.

Roscoe is ok, mostly, but the Chevy’s bumper is dented and cracked and Stiles knows from sad, personal experience that he’s looking at more money than he can afford or another insurance hike that he also can’t afford and it’s only been two days since school got out and he arrived back in town and his dad is gonna murder him.

They pull into a parking lot and he and Tanya — frazzled and late for work but surprisingly patient and good-natured — exchange information and wait for the police. Stiles considers making small talk but Tanya is already talking to someone on her phone as she walks away, probably complaining about the idiot that ruined her day. He sits slumped in the driver’s seat contemplating the ways of the universe and whether he needs yet another part-time job when Derek Hale drives up. He stops the cruiser and peers out his window at Stiles. They make eye contact. Derek lifts an eyebrow.

“Stiles,” he says.

“Deputy,” Stiles says.

“You’re back,” Derek says because this is how he talks, how he’s always talked, plain and painfully obvious and so annoying Stiles wants to slam someone’s head against the steering wheel, his or Derek’s, doesn’t matter.

“I am.” Stiles nods. “Christmas.”

“Right.” Derek nods. He parks and does his job, efficient and well, and Tanya drives off with her broken bumper and ruined day and Stiles sits in his Jeep. It’s not icy anymore and the rainbow is gone and it’s cloudy and depressing and Stiles’ head hurts, just on one side. He wonders if it’s a headache or the beginnings of a tumour when Derek reappears.

“You ok?” He looks concerned, which concerns Stiles because usually Derek looks at him with equal parts frustration and confusion with a bit of disappointment mixed in for good measure.

“Awesome.” He nods and grins and turns the key and nothing happens. He grins and nods and does it again and still nothing happens.

“Stiles—”

“Yep.” Stiles turns it again, and again and once more before admitting defeat.

“Roscoe won’t start?”

Stiles sighs. He tries hard to not roll his eyes. After all it’s not Derek’s fault he’s a Deputy and asks Deputy questions that are painfully on point and kind of dumb sometimes.

“Need a ride?”

Stiles sighs again. He debates the pros and cons of calling Scott and sitting and waiting versus sliding into Derek’s warm car and going home to make more phone calls about his sad vehicle that’s going to cost a lot of money he doesn’t have.

“Yeah. Sure.” He locks Roscoe and follows Derek to the waiting car and slides in and buckles up and tries not to fidget or talk or make any more of an embarrassing menace of himself for the seven minutes it takes to drive to his house. Derek drives perfectly, of course, careful and dead-on the speed limit, smooth and practiced, missing all the Beacon Hills potholes and waiting patiently for pedestrians to cross the road entirely before proceeding. Stiles wonders idly if Derek has ever been in an accident in his entire life, wonders if he should ask, wonders if he ever thinks about them and things that happened before Stiles left for school. He’s just about to open his mouth to say something potentially humiliating, when Derek beats him to it.

“Hey,” Derek says suddenly as they drive at a carefully modulated pace towards Stiles’ house. “Did you see that _rainbow_?”

//

Roscoe is fixed and Stiles is in debt, again, but a fixed Roscoe means late night drives with his friends. Stiles like to think this is because he’s a good and reliable driver, but it’s actually because Stiles is still the only one of his friends to own a vehicle. As they tool about town, checking out Christmas lights and blow-up Santas and hand-made Nativity displays, conversations tend to go like this:

“Slow down, Stiles.” (Scott)

“You can see the light is changing right—” (Lydia)

“Holy shit Stiles that was close!” (Isaac)

“Do you need your fucking eyes checked?” (Scott)

“Didn’t you _just_ get this hunk of junk back from the garage?” (Lydia)

“One, it’s _not_ a hunk of—”

“Stiles, slow down!” (Allison)

“I can _see_ the truck—”

“Then slow _down_!” (Lydia)

“Two, Roscoe didn’t actually need to go to the garage because the damage was minimal. _So_ minimal it was virtually nonexistent—”

“Motherfucker!” (Allison. Not a good sign.)

Stiles slams on the brakes, hard, and swerves to the right to avoid Large Marge, the notorious pot hole on Swan Street. Everyone in the Jeep also swerves to right in a tumble of elbows and knees and knocking skulls and angry shouts.

“Does _everyone_ think I’m a bad driver?” Stiles asks no one in particular as he barrels around the corner, then wisely cranks the radio before anyone can answer.

//

The room is dark and Stiles is awake. He’s awake at 1 and 2 and 3 and 3:47. He’s turned side to side 39 times and he’s played 21 games of CandyCrush. His eyes are filled with grains of sand. It’s strange to be back in this room after nine months away, except for a few weekends and holidays. The room is a familiar size and shape and smell but his body doesn’t fit here like it used to and he can hear his own breathing as he waits and waits and waits for sleep that doesn’t come.

//

In Stiles’ defense, the weather is crap — not snow, of course, but dark and wet and miserable — and he is legitimately distracted. He’s not looking at his phone exactly, but Scott has finally texted him back about meeting up for dinner and Stiles is like Pavlov’s dog when he hears that tiny ping and he’s glancing down and up and back down in equal measure and thumbing a brief reply when suddenly there’s a curb where there wasn’t a curb before and he’s up and over and hitting a trash can and a light pole in that order.

“Fuck.”

While he’s waiting for Scott to figure out a way to come get him because it’s clearly Scott’s fault, a familiar cruiser pulls up behind him, lights twirling cherry red against the wet grey pavement of a December evening. There’s a door opening and slamming shut and a familiar figure approaching in the side mirror.

Perfect.

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“You ok?”

“Yep.”

Derek puts his hands on his hips and frowns as he surveys the damage and Stiles’ role in it. He crooks his head in the direction of his own car and Stiles sighs and follows him, slides in beside him and closes the door. He sits with his head down, stares at his phone, waits for Scott.

They sit in silence for a moment.

“So, are you just, like, following me around now?” Stiles says when he can’t handle the quiet anymore.

“No, Stiles. I’m not following you anywhere. You just happen to keep crashing into things while I’m working.”

Stiles groans and lets his head fall against the window with a solid thunk.

“Ow,” Derek says in sympathy. Then, idly, “How many days have you been back in town, Stiles?” He asks this like he’s genuinely curious, like he doesn’t know. Stiles knows better. He shrugs.

“About a week, I think.”

Derek hums and nods. “Yeah. That sounds about right. I’d say, maybe, eight days, to be precise. You’ve been back here for eight days.”

“Huh.” Stiles shifts and purses his lips. “How ‘bout that.”

“Yeah. And how many accidents have you been in during those eight days?”

“You know _exactly_ how many—”

“Well, I’m just double checking in case I happened to miss one. Or two. Or—”

“Oh look. Scott’s here.” And there Scott is, pulling up behind them with Allison in some sleek silver thing belonging to Allison’s dad, and Stiles can’t get out of the cruiser fast enough. “You’re free to go, officer,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve called a tow truck and everything is copacetic now.”

Derek unfolds himself from the driver side and fixes Stiles with a steady gaze. “You realize I still need to write you up for careless driving.”

“Oh, Derek.” Stiles grins and almost means it. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

//

“Care to explain, son?”

John levels Stiles with an even look over the dinner table the next night, daring Stiles to break eye contact or lie.

“Explain what?”

John slides the slip of paper across the dinner table. Stiles pretends not to know. He really gets into it, picking it up, bringing it close to his face, squinting, pursing his lips, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Huh,” he says finally, truly puzzled.

“Stiles.” John says this, this one word, like it contains every disappointment and worry that John carries on his weary shoulders.

“It was totally not my fault, I swear,” Stiles says as he shovels food in his mouth at an alarming pace. “Have you _seen_ the holes in the roads around here? I should be writing tickets for _you_ , truth be told. They’re a _menace_. I should be compensated for the damage inflicted to Roscoe. In fact—”

“Ok, ok. I’ll drop it.” John pauses. “For now.”

Stiles knows what this means, but he grins with bulging cheeks, hustles his dirty dishes to the kitchen and drops a messy, saucy kiss on his dad’s head before he runs out the door to a slightly battered yet newly repaired Jeep.

//

The room is dark and Stiles is awake. He’s awake at 2 and 3 and 4 and 4:59. He’s turned side to side 22 times and he’s played 104 games of CandyCrush. His eyes are heavy and his head is filled with cotton. His room is too small and holds too many memories and every time he does close his eyes he thinks about things he hasn’t thought about in months, thinks about _people_ he’d rather forget about, people with inky black hair and startlingly light eyes, the particular sound of their voice, their laugh, the angular shape of their face and their solid body next to his and he groans and rolls so his face is pushed into the pillow but he can still hear his thoughts and his breathing as he waits and waits and waits for sleep that doesn’t come.

//

In Stiles’ defense, the deer comes out of nowhere and Stiles is legitimately distracted. Well, it doesn’t come out of nowhere. It comes out of the woods that line the road, thick and green and dark and filled with secrets.

Was he looking right at the road in front of him? Maybe not entirely. Maybe he kept glancing out the window at the woods. Maybe he kept thinking about what lay just beyond, and maybe he was remembering what the earth smelled like there, dark and rich, under his back, in his hair, pressed into his skin while someone else pressed into him. Maybe he was thinking about dark haired light-eyed scruffy chinned werewolf men who kept showing up at random inopportune moments after months of no contact at all, and maybe he was fantasizing about punching dark-haired, light-eyed, scruffy-chinned werewolf men right in the fucking face when the deer made its unfortunate appearance. Maybe.

He’s sitting idly on the side of the road, heart racing, slow drip of blood making its way down the side of his face when the Toyota comes to a screeching sliding stop 10 feet away.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles.” Stiles doesn’t even bother looking.

“Hey, Derek.”

Derek is crouching down low just beside him, tentative hand on the back of his neck.

“You come to rescue me, handsome?”

Derek frowns. “Did you hit your head?”

Stiles looks at him, points at the blood _on his head_.

“Are you ok?”

“Awesome. So far, being home has just been awesome all the way round.” He watches Derek whip out his phone and make a call. He doesn’t really hear what he’s saying because he’s too distracted by dark hair and moving lips and _fingers_.

“—Stiles?”

Stiles blinks. “Huh?”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Deer,” Stiles says, waving a hand towards the trees. He pauses and blinks a few times, forgetting what he was going to say next. Possibly something about face punching. A drop of blood falls from the side of his jaw onto his jeans. And another. Drip. Drip.

“Ok. Up we go.” Derek grabs Stiles’ arms and gently pulls him upright, slowly, carefully, helps him walk over to Derek’s car.

“This is your car,” Stiles says as he slides in. Derek fumbles around in the backseat and hands Stiles a wad of cloth to press to his head. It smells like Derek. It’s a T-shirt, he realizes. One that Derek has worn and smells like him. Oh god.

“Yes. It’s my car.” Derek starts driving. “We’re going to the hospital. I called your dad. He’s going to meet us there.”

Stiles blinks. That’s way too much information to process and he’s still in the middle of forming his initial thought.

“No, I mean. This is your personal car. Not your work car. You’re not working. You’re. _Personalling_.”

Derek glances at him. “Keep that on your head,” he says. He’s driving faster than normal, faster than Deputy Derek would drive which Stiles finds interesting and kind of hypocritical. Would Deputy Derek pull Civilian Derek over and give him a stern talking to, even with a bleeding battered Stiles en route to hospital? Probably. Asshole. “And no, I’m off duty. Which is why I’m driving this car.”

“So you really _are_ stalking me. Ha. Called it.”

“I’m _not_ —”

“You just happened to be driving the exact same stretch of quiet, country road at the exact same time as me. Interesting, officer. And I watch cop shows. There’s no such thing as coincidence.”

Derek just sighs and grips the steering wheel tighter, presses down on the gas harder.

“You worried I’m, like, cheating on you or something?”

Derek actually swerves a bit at that. “Jesus Stiles. _No_. No, I’m not _worried_ about that because—”

“Because we’re not actually together. Exactly. And why aren’t we together? I’ll tell you why, _Off-Duty Deputy_. Because you broke up with me.” He’s aiming for triumphant but he’s pretty sure he’s hit pathetic right on the money. “So why are you following me?”

“For the last time, I’m _not following you_.” Derek’s driving pretty fast now and he keeps glancing at Stiles, reaching over to press on Stiles’ hand which is holding the moist T-shirt. “Keep pressure on that,” he snaps. “And,” he mumbles, “I didn’t break up with you.” 

“Oh ho ho,” Stiles says. “Yes. You did. I clearly remember a breaking-up happening before I left for school. And I clearly remember it coming from your mouth and not mine. And I clearly remember no texts and zero phone calls once I got there so. Yeah.” Stiles stops talking because if he’s being completely honest he’s not remembering anything too clearly at the moment. Plus, he’s starting to feel decidedly woozy. And nauseous. 

“It just sucks, all of it, because we were good together,” he says. “We were. Really good. You remember _that_? Or am I hallucinating?” 

His head really does hurt and he’s sliding in and out of full consciousness, but he swears he hears Derek mutter, No, you’re not hallucinating, right before he passes out completely. 

_//_

John is eerily quiet on the drive home from the hospital. Once he makes sure Stiles is relatively unharmed, no internal bleeding, no dangerous concussion — just a few stitches and a bandage — no missing teeth or broken bones, he hustles him into the waiting cruiser and hustles his bruised ass home. Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a clenched jaw. Stiles drums nervous fingers on his thighs and waits and waits for the killing blow. 

It doesn’t come. 

John picks up pizza, like he does every Friday night, and they sit together on the worn couch and watch the game, like they do every Friday night. Stiles continues to wait, throat working extra hard around clumps of unusually dry pizza that aren’t going down quite right. Finally, John yawns and stretches and carries the empty box and their empty plates to the kitchen. Stiles listens to the random kitchen noises, running water and dishes in the washer and his dad flicking off the light. 

“You need anything before I head up? Tylenol? A cold glass of water?” John even manages to look genuinely concerned. Stiles is suddenly _terrified._

Stiles shakes his head, breath tight in his chest. Is there really going to be no lecture? No grounding? No _anything?_

“Ok. Well, I’ll be waking you up every hour tonight, so I suggest you turn in too. You’ve had a rough day. Rough couple of days, I’d say. You’re a lucky kid, you know that? But luck always runs out.” John chuckles. “And you need sleep. Lots of sleep, actually. You need a clear head and rested body for Monday.” 

Stiles blinks. “What’s happening Monday?”. 

John blinks, too, managing to look much more innocent than he is. Then he smiles. “Driving. Lessons.” 

Ah. There it is. Stiles leaps to his feet and wobbles slightly on his bruised right knee. 

“ _Driving_ lessons?” Stiles tries to keep his voice level but he doesn’t fully succeed. “I do _not_ need _driving lessons_ —” 

He’s interrupted by John slamming a fistful of papers down on the coffee table between them, rattling the Santa figurine and the bowl of red and green M&Ms. Stiles glares at his father. John glares back. Stiles glares down at the table. Beneath John’s hand, sweaty and trembling with apoplectic rage, is a sizable stack containing, Stiles knows, numerous accident reports, several speeding tickets, two letters from their insurance company detailing their recently raised rates, a towing receipt, and more repair bills than Stiles cares to add up. He folds his arms and still manages to look insulted. 

“While the Jeep’s in the garage you’ll be working overtime to help pay for it,” John says. “Oh. _And_.” 

Stiles looks up. Oh. _And._ Oh god. 

“I’ve already hired your teacher.” John smiles. With teeth. “He’ll pick you up at 8.” 

_//_

The room is dark and Stiles is awake. He’s been awake most of the night because he knows his dad will be creeping in and shaking his shoulder and peering deeply into his eyes, and that knowledge alone has beaten off any possibility of real sleep. Now thin streaks of weak pale dawn are just starting to crawl under the slats of his window blinds and slide across the worn wooden floor. He’s so tired he might be hallucinating, but he also might be dreaming. When he does close his gritty eyes he sees flashes of dark trees and slick road, garish rainbows and light-eyed men who look at him like they want him, he remembers bodies sliding together and breathless middle of the night kisses and trembling fingertips on sweaty skin. He can’t believe he’s actually back here in his childhood bedroom, alone, remembering things that happened months and months ago and will probably never happen again as he waits and waits and waits for sleep that doesn’t come. 

_//_

Monday morning at 7:56 there’s a sharp rap on the front door. Stiles, toothbrush in mouth and dressed in worn T-shirt and ratty underwear, swears and sprays spit and foam across the mirror. Of _course_ he’s early. And of _course_ he’s _knocking_ the asshole. God forbid he just give a polite hello honk or casual _Hey I’m here_ text and wait in his car like a normal person. Stiles yells something down the stairs that is surely incomprehensible because four seconds later there’s another staccato burst of knocks, louder and more impatient than the first. And then another, longer and louder. Stiles yells again, louder. He waits, trembling. 

Knock knock knock _knock knock knocknocknock_. 

“Fuck!” Stiles yells and bounds down the stairs in a state of undress and mouth foam. He flings the front door open to find none other than Derek Hale, dark and brooding and stupidly handsome, hand poised to knock _again_ holy fuck. Stiles’ is inordinately pleased to see the look of startled surprise on Derek’s face as he stands there, hand raised, eyes wide, gaze sliding from Stiles’ flushed face down his worn red T-shirt with the torn collar to the boxer shorts covered with laughing Santas below that. 

“What! Is! It!” Stiles says while attempting to swallow spit and toothpaste at the same time. 

Derek’s mouth is hanging open a bit and the tops of his cheeks are red. He lowers his hand and clenches his fist. “Driving lessons,” he manages, sounding strangled. “I’m here to uh.” He gestures vaguely behind him, where the silver Toyota sits waiting, engine ticking as it starts to cool. 

“I know why you’re here! As you can see it’s not quite 8 yet! And I’m in the middle of getting ready! For the driving lessons! That start at 8! That I do not need! Stop fucking knocking and wait in your car so I can put my shoes on!” He turns, then stops. “And some pants!” Then he slams the door in Derek’s fucking unfair face. 

His stupid hands are actually shaking as he yanks on a pair of jeans and shoves his sockless feet into sneakers. Shaking with _rage_ he tells himself, not nervous anticipation or fear or, god forbid, excitement at the prospect of spending the next hour alone with Derek for the first time in almost four months. No. It’s definitely rage. 

“In my defense,” Derek says as Stiles is violently yanking the seatbelt over his chest, voice tight, “I knocked because you didn’t answer my text and your Jeep wasn’t in the driveway. I thought,” he says, “you might have forgotten or run away or were still asleep or, I don’t know, jerking off in the shower. Any of those options is possible.” 

Stiles grips the steering wheel. He tries to forget that Derek’s big, beautiful hands grip this very leather bound wheel on a daily basis, all his pheromones and sweat and whatever else seeping into the leather. 

“In _my_ defense,” he begins and his voice is low and calm and quiet, “I forgot to charge my phone last night so it died which is why my alarm didn’t go off which is why I was _very slightly late_ getting ready this morning. I jerked off in my _bed_ , didn’t shower, so sucks to be you, and Roscoe, as you may recall, is in the shop because a fucking deer ran into him last week.” He doesn’t add that he’s had approximately 46 minutes of sleep because honestly, it doesn’t seem relevant. He’s wide fucking awake and quivering with _rage_. The adrenaline is coursing through him. 

There’s no sound but for slightly elevated breathing and Stiles’ heart slamming against his ribcage, blood buzzing in his ears. 

“ _You_ ran into the _deer_ , Stiles,” is what Derek comes up with. “Because you were speeding and not paying attention. As usual. Which is why I am here.” 

Stiles decides not to debate this because he’s tired and it’s not worth his precious time. He does, however, have questions. 

“How much is my dad paying you for this?” 

Derek frowns. “The business details of this arrangement are between me and the Sheriff.” 

Stiles snorts. “Wow. That much, huh? Like Scott would have totally done it for _free_. Not that I need it! Let’s just make that clear right from the get go! I don’t need driving lessons! And _if_ I did, Scott would have totally offered to do it if my dad hadn’t intervened and dragged your sorry ass into the picture.” 

“Scott wouldn’t do it.” 

Stiles looks at him. “What?” He snorts again, but quieter. “Yes he would. He’s my _best friend_ —” 

“Stiles.” Derek waits until he’s sure Stiles is looking right at him, full attention, no jittering hands or tapping feet. “No. One. Wants. To. Drive. With. You.” 

Stiles opens his mouth. He’s abruptly interrupted. 

“You. Scare. Your. Passengers.” 

Stiles tries once more. “But—” 

“You. Are. A. Menace. On. The. Road.” 

Stiles throws his hands up. “Ok! Fine! So my dad offered you what, a billion kajillion dollars to dare to climb into a death trap with his vehicularly challenged son? Aren’t you scared you’ll like, get permanently mangled? 

“I have super werewolf healing.” Derek actually waggles his fingers. Stiles stares at them for longer than he should. 

“So does Scott!” 

“And he’s your friend.” 

“Yes! We’ve already decided that.” 

Now Derek looks a little embarrassed. Good. “Your dad and I thought. We well. He decided it would be better if someone. Someone more. Less emotionally involved—” 

Stiles starts laughing. Hysterically. 

“Yes. Got it. You hate me and you’ll be brutally fucking honest about how horrible a driver I am whereas my loving bestie Scott would just feed my sad ego and make me feel good about my abilities and send me back out onto the streets wreaking havoc wherever I go.” 

Derek looks out the window and says nothing, but his hands are curled into tight, trembling balls on his thighs. 

“Can we just go already?” Stiles says through clenched teeth. 

Derek looks at him. “You going to actually listen to me?” 

Stiles looks right back. “I guess that depends. You actually going to say anything worth listening to?” 

Derek glares. Stiles glares back. 

“Bring it on,” he says. 

_//_

_Lesson One_

“You ready for this?” 

“Are _you_ ready for this,” Stiles mutters, fiddling with the rearview mirror for the sixth time. He’s not sure what Derek was seeing in it, but it wasn’t whatever was behind him. 

“What?” 

“Coffee,” Stiles says loudly. “I need coffee. I didn’t get a chance to make any because you showed up three hours early.” 

“Coffee.” Derek says this blankly, as if he’s never heard of such a beverage in all his life. “And I was _five minutes early_.” 

Stiles sighs and jabs at the radio, turns it up loud before he fully realizes what’s playing. 

“Derek.” 

“Stiles.” 

“Is this.” 

“Stiles.” 

“God _damn_.” 

“ _Stiles_.” 

“ _Country music_.” 

Derek snaps the radio off with a sharp slap. Stiles shudders and shakes his head, rubs his ears violently. 

“That was horrific. And traumatizing. I honestly don’t know if I can recover quickly enough to focus on the task at hand.” 

Derek ignores him. 

“Today we’re going to cover all the basics.” Derek talks in his Deputy Voice. “Before you pull out, show me where everything is.” 

Stiles just barely resists a That’s What She Said joke. Barely. But only because Derek’s not worth it, and probably wouldn’t get it. 

“This is your car, Derek. Why would I know exactly where everything is.” 

“Humour me. Take a guess.” 

Stiles finds pretty much everything fairly quickly. He pops the hood and locates the emergency brake, the four-way flasher. Gets the wipers going and the headlights. Jabs buttons for air flow and defrost. When Derek is finally satisfied, he nods. 

“Hey Derek?” Stiles says, just before he backs up. 

Derek looks over at him, eyebrows raised. 

“What happens to a frog’s car when it breaks down?” 

Derek sighs, long suffering, and just tilts his head, waiting. 

“It gets toad.” 

_//_

“How was your first lesson?” John says, face smug, eyes innocent, beer in hand. 

“Oh, it was _awesome_ , dad. I learned ever so much. Thank you for arranging it. Derek is _awesome_ and like, the best driver I’ve ever had the privilege of driving with. In fact, he—” 

“Ok ok, Stiles. Jesus.” John drinks half his beer in one go. “Just get through it and please try to pay attention. For once. You might learn something.” 

Stiles grabs a beer of his own from the fridge and presses it to his suddenly throbbing temple. “I have no desire to learn anything Derek Hale might even be slightly qualified to teach me. You should consider saving your hard-earned money and spending it elsewhere. Like on better beer. Or therapy for your son.” 

John looks at him. “What hard-earned money? What are you talking about?” 

“Whatever you’re paying Deputy Dickhead. He doesn’t deserve it, and I don’t need driving lessons.” Stiles’ voice goes up and up until he’s high and breathless and he sucks back half his bottle to keep himself from talking any more. 

John frowns. “I’m not paying Derek. I mean, I offered of course, but he said no. Emphatically. He was kind of insulted that I suggested it, I think.” 

For some reason, this makes Stiles even angrier. “Oh, ok. I see. So he just thinks I’m _that bad_ that he’s what, doing the public a _service_? By teaching me? For free? He’s just spending his rare spare time — that he could be spending sleeping or galloping through the woods or _Christmas shopping_ — driving around with me and giving me pointers about my horrific vehicular skills? Out of the goodness of his heart? For funsies? Or what, he just likes spending time with me _that much_ that he’s pretending to teach me and talk to me when both of us know my driving abilities are just fine?” 

There’s a profound silence after his rant. John lifts one eyebrow, takes a delicate sip. Stiles wills his heart rate to slow, his grip to relax. Oh god. 

“I’m. I’m just gonna lie down now for a bit. I’m kinda. Tired.” 

John nods wisely, salutes him with his beer. “Good idea, son.” 

_//_

_Lesson Two_

__“Coffee coffee coffee coffee!” Stiles chants as he slides into the driver seat the next morning. Derek stares at him._ _

__“What was that?”_ _

__“Coffee! Cofffeeeeee!”_ _

__Derek tilts his head slightly._ _

__“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” He purses his lips. “Did you want something?”_ _

__“Yes! Coffee!”_ _

__They get coffee and Stiles studiously ignores Derek’s hiss and grabbing of the door handle when Stiles takes the curve into the drive-thru too sharply. Stiles orders the biggest size they have, once again avoids a hilarious That’s What She Said joke which is sad and tragic, and after a long, fortifying gulp, they’re on their way._ _

__“You’re going too fast again.”_ _

__“I am not.”_ _

__Derek leans over and taps near the speedometer, then points exaggeratedly at the passing road sign._ _

__“Too. Fast. Slow. Down.”_ _

__Stiles groans long and loud, slows down to _exactly_ the speed limit, huffs and rolls his eyes and almost ignores Derek’s little grin in his peripheral vision._ _

__“Derek.”_ _

__“What.”_ _

__“When is a car not a car?”_ _

__Derek sighs and waits._ _

__“When it turns into a driveway.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

_Hey,_ Stiles texts at 2:14 am. _You awake_

Surprisingly, he gets a reply six seconds later. 

_I am now_

Stiles’ hands are kind of shaking, which is stupid. 

_What’s wrong?_

_Nothing! Nothing. Just. Forget it. Sorry I woke you._

He should be surprised when his phone immediately rings but he’s not. Not completely. 

__“You ok Stiles? Really?”_ _

__“Yes! God. Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”_ _

__There’s a pause. “Why are you awake?”_ _

“Why are _you_ awake?” 

__“Stiles.”_ _

__“Derek.”_ _

__Derek doesn’t reply. Stiles can hear him breathing, slow and steady and patient and painfully obvious, like always._ _

_I miss you,_ Stiles doesn’t say. _I wish we hadn’t broken up,_ he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say that because it’s not entirely true. They were never really _together_ in the first place. Not really, unless frantic make-out sessions and hand jobs in the Jeep count and one thoroughly erotic _frottage_ episode in the woods the night before he left. No actual dating in public to be had. He does remember, even if he likes to pretend otherwise. They’d just been getting going, on the cusp, engines revving and tires smoking, all signals go go go and then. School. And away. And Deputy being responsible and wanting Stiles to Experience Life before Committing. 

__Or some such shit. He doesn’t remember. Mostly._ _

_I miss you,_ he doesn’t say again. 

__“You can,” Derek starts then stops. Cuts himself off._ _

__“I can what? I can do lots of things. Except drive well, apparently.”_ _

__“You can talk to me,” Derek mumbles and Stiles almost laughs at that, but he doesn’t._ _

_I wish we were still talking like this, late at night, talking until we fell asleep, listening to each other breathe, waking up to dead air and a dead battery but feeling happy because we’d fallen asleep listening to each other just like this._

He doesn’t say any of that. 

__“See you tomorrow,” he says instead._ _

__“Yeah,” Derek breathes._ _

__“With a goddamn _vat_ of coffee.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

_Lesson Three_

__“Stiles!” Derek yells and grabs the wheel at the same time, jerking them back into the right-hand lane. “Did you even see that truck?”_ _

__Stiles shakes his head and bites his lip and has the decency to look a little shamed. Derek peers at him._ _

__“How much sleep did you get last night?”_ _

__“Enough. Some.”_ _

__“Are you still not sleeping?” Derek says this very quietly because he knows, and he remembers, of course._ _

__“I’m doing ok.” Stiles can hear his voice. He can feel his shoulders pulling up. He forces, through great sheer will, to calm down, to unclench. “I’m fine, pal.”_ _

__Derek snorts. “Pal.” He pauses. “Turn right here.” He pauses again. “And pull over.”_ _

__Stiles doesn’t even fight him. That’s how tired he is. The engine dies and they sit together in the too quiet, staring out the windshield and the side windows and at the ceiling and at anything that is not each other._ _

__“Look,” Derek begins, just as Stiles says:_ _

__“Drowsy driving is suspected to be a primary cause in more than 20 percent of road fatalities.”_ _

__Derek looks at him. “Is that. What. Supposed to make me feel better?”_ _

__Stiles continues. “Most fatigue-related accidents occur during normal sleeping hours, and the more severe the crash, the more likely it is that the driver or drivers were fatigued.”_ _

__“Ok. I’m aware of the stats. Being a cop and all.” Derek keeps looking at him. “Stiles—”_ _

__“Also, an estimated one in 25 adult drivers aged 18 years or older report having fallen asleep while driving in the previous 30 days.” Stiles stares straight ahead, fingers tapping on his right knee. “The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration estimates that drowsy driving was responsible for 72,000 crashes, 44,000 injuries, and 800 deaths last year. However, these numbers are underestimated and up to 6,000 fatal crashes each year may be caused by drowsy drivers.”_ _

__Derek reaches over and covers Stiles’ hand with his. It’s warm. Stiles lets out a long breath and looks at Derek directly._ _

__“No, I’m not sleeping. Yet. Still. And no I haven’t told you about that because we don’t really talk anymore. About anything.”_ _

__“We can. We can still talk. I want to know how you’re doing.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Because I care about you, idiot.” It’s the angriest Stiles has heard Derek sound in a long time. It’s frustration balled up with disappointment and confusion and something else Stiles isn’t daring to think about yet. “Look. I know you’re not a bad driver. Well, not _this_ bad anyway. I know you, right? I know you’re exhausted and I know you don’t sleep and I’ve driven with you enough times in the past to know all these things. You’re tired. You’re overtired. You don’t need driving lessons. You need to sleep.”_ _

__Derek’s hand is tight on his through this little speech and his intensity is palpable in the little space between them._ _

__“Then why did you agree to—”_ _

__“Because I wanted to spend time with you!” Derek grinds this out between clenched teeth, like it pains him to say it. “And I knew you wouldn’t otherwise.”_ _

__Stiles blinks. “Well that’s not true.”_ _

__Derek rolls his eyes._ _

__“Well not entirely.”_ _

__They sit for a bit longer_ _

__“Hey, Derek?” Stiles says before he pulls into traffic._ _

__Derek looks at him, wary._ _

__“I couldn’t figure out how to fasten my seatbelt.” He pauses. “And then it clicked.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

_You sleeping? I hope you are. If you are, good. I just wanted to check in and let you know you’re doing really well with the lessons. You’re actually listening, which is a nice change. And you’re doing well. Anyway. That’s all. I’ll see you in the morning._

_With coffee ;)_

__

__//_ _

__

_Lesson Four_

__“Ok we’re getting on the highway today.”_ _

__“Ok.”_ _

__“That means lots of traffic, high speed and distractions.”_ _

__“Yes. I’m aware. I have to drive the highway to school and back every time I come home for a visit.”_ _

__Stiles sips his coffee and looks over at Derek. “Thanks.”_ _

__“You’re welcome.” Derek goes pink high up on his cheeks._ _

__“For this, yeah. And also for the text. I especially liked the winky face." He pauses. "I actually was sleeping. For a change. So.”_ _

__“Oh. Ok. Good. That’s good. I just wanted you to know, in case I wasn’t clear yesterday.” Derek swallows. “So. Yeah. Good.”_ _

__“Good.” Stiles grins._ _

__Derek nods. “Good. So, let’s do this.”_ _

__“Oh, before I go.”_ _

__Derek looks over._ _

__“What do you get when dinosaurs crash their cars?”_ _

__“I don’t know, Stiles. What do you get when dinosaurs crash their cars?”_ _

__“Tyrannosaurus wrecks.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

__“Hey,” Stiles says when Derek answers his phone. “Guess where I am?”_ _

__“Hmm,” Derek says. “I was hoping asleep? Because it’s 2 am? And we have a lesson scheduled at 8?”_ _

__Stiles laughs. “No silly. I’m not sleeping. I’m talking to you.”_ _

__“Are you drunk, Stiles?”_ _

__“Yeah. Pretty fucking much, dude.”_ _

__“Where are you?”_ _

__“Uh. I’m lying on the grass.”_ _

__“Where? At your house?”_ _

__“Uh, no. Nope. Definitely not my house.”_ _

__“Stiles! Did you drive? Are you _driving_?”_ _

__“No silly. Roscoe is still in the shop. Remember?”_ _

__“Why are you calling me? Are you alone?”_ _

__“You’re asking a lot of questions there Mr. Question Guy.” Stiles mumbles. Derek probably doesn’t understand him, but he’s not really saying anything important. “I was at a party with Scott and Allison and like everyone. Well, not everyone. You weren’t there. Do you even go to parties? Probably not because cop. And you. Anyway. Party. And I needed fresh air, so I started walking. And now. Well. Here I am.”_ _

__“Where is _here_ exactly, Stiles?”_ _

__Derek pulls into the cemetery 15 minutes later. He finds Stiles sprawled on the grass near Claudia’s grave, an empty bottle of wine clutched in his hand. He glances up when Derek appears, looming over him, hands shoved in his coat pockets._ _

__“Hey officer.”_ _

__“What are you doing, Stiles?” Derek’s voice is quiet, gentle, oddly probing._ _

__“Drinking.”_ _

__“I can see that. And smell it.” Derek sits gingerly on the cold, hard ground next to him, leans close. He’s so goddamn warm. Stiles wants to climb into his lap. He wants to do a lot of things. “Are you…ok?”_ _

__“Nah. Not really.” Stiles lifts the bottle, takes a drink, puts it down. He leans hard against Derek’s side and Derek lets him. “Mauritson sauv blanc. Her favourite. She liked to drink it around Christmas. Dad always gave her a bottle as a gift, but she liked it all year round.” He has no idea why he’s telling Derek this, but Derek is quiet and Stiles supposes he’s listening. “I thought. I thought it might help me sleep. I started at the party. Wanted to get tired. It did the opposite. Just. Got my mind racing all over the place, worse than usual even. So I walked here.”_ _

__Derek slides his arms around Stiles then, pulls him close, presses his face to the top of Stiles’ hair._ _

__“Oh Stiles.”_ _

__Stiles thinks about walking through the dim and dark and quiet streets of Beacon Hills after midnight, bottle of his mother’s favourite wine clutched in his hand, heading for the cemetery a week before her favourite holiday. Finding her grave and polishing off the bottle under the late December half-moon. He would like to cry, he thinks, but he lets Derek hold him instead and that’s ok. It’s ok. His mother, he knows, would prefer he not cry. She would have liked Derek in his life._ _

__“You’re cold,” Derek says when Stiles shivers and Stiles has forgotten it’s winter and cold because of the wine, so he doesn’t protest too much when Derek helps him into the car where he cranks the heat and drives him home._ _

__“Hey,” Stiles says lolling his head and looking over at Derek. “Wanna touch my dipstick?”_ _

__“ _Stiles_.” Derek takes the corner a little sharply. Stiles’ head knocks against the window._ _

__“You can if you want, you know. My stick shift, my driving stick.” Stiles cackles. “You could even lube my shaft, if you wanted. Try a little direct injection…fill my tank—”_ _

__“Stiles!” Derek narrowly misses Large Marge and Stiles has to laugh at that, at a rattled Deputy Derek._ _

__Derek pulls into the Stilinski driveway way too fast, even Stiles can tell in his inebriated state, but he doesn’t chastise Derek because he’s not an uptight asshole. He’s drunk, but he’s not uptight._ _

__“Hey Derek,” Stiles says._ _

__Derek just looks at him, too scared to say anything at all._ _

__“I just,” Stiles takes a deep breath and makes a kind of burping noise. “I just wanted to _say_. If you were a car?” Another pause. “I’d let you jump me.”_ _

__He grins wide and white in the dark, so so proud of himself. Then he leans over and vomits all over the floor._ _

__

__//_ _

__

_Lesson Five_

__Stiles awakes to a bowl placed beside his bed and a glass of water on his bedside table. His window is open a crack and his room is cold and fresh. He closes his eyes and thinks about going back to sleep when there’s a loud and insistent knocking on the front door. Then his phone starts buzzing. This is followed by more knocking. Another buzz. He grabs his phone._ _

_I’m waiting. You have five minutes. I have coffee. Extra-large. Get moving._

__

__//_ _

__

__The smell assaults him when he opens the door. Derek is sitting still and stoic, arms crossed. All the windows are down. It’s freezing. There’s a large coffee waiting in the holder, as promised._ _

__“Wow,” Stiles says, sitting carefully and pulling the seatbelt across his chest. “That’s uh.”_ _

__Derek glances over. He looks pained._ _

__“Yeah. It is.” He takes a shallow breath through his mouth. “You ok?”_ _

__“Mouth gross. Head hurt.” He reaches for the coffee with grateful, trembling hands, takes a sip, puts it down. “Are _you_ ok?”_ _

__Derek nods, once, punctuated by more shallow breathing. Stiles peers at him._ _

__“You’re trying not to hurl, aren’t you.”_ _

__“Yep.”_ _

__“We _really_ don’t have to do this today.”_ _

__“Oh, we’re doing it.”_ _

__“That’s what she said,” Stiles whispers._ _

__And Derek _laughs.__ _

__

__//_ _

__

__They go parking._ _

__Through his hungover haze of blurred vision, pounding headache and roiling gut, Stiles manages to perfectly execute numerous three-point turns, seven parallel parks and 10 reverse parks before Derek declares him a complete success. They sit quietly in the furthest corner of Beacon Hills Gardens as Stiles finishes the dregs of his coffee and Derek fiddles with the radio. He swoops right past the country station to land on the local Christmas one, and the quiet strains of Silent Night fill the car._ _

__“You can listen to country if you want,” Stiles says, because he’s feeling both exhausted and guilty. He’s gotten used to the stench now, but he’s sure it’s still vile._ _

__“This is more fitting, I think,” is all Derek says._ _

__“I didn’t even know you liked it.” Stiles tries to say this with gagging and he’s mostly successful._ _

__Derek shrugs. “My dad.” He pauses. “My dad liked it. I grew up listening to the classics. Loretta Lynn and Johnny Cash. Dolly. Hank Williams.” He trails off. “It just reminds me of him, I guess.” He pauses again. “This time of year is hard for a lot of people, I think.”_ _

__“Oh,” Stiles says, quiet. He reaches over and touches Derek’s hand, the back of it, with two fingers. “I didn’t know. Really. You never.”_ _

__Derek looks over and smiles, eyes wide and shiny. “I think there’s a lot of stuff we don’t know about each other.”_ _

__Stiles nods a bit. “Yeah. I know.” He sucks in a breath. “But we can learn. We can still learn, if you want. Because I want to. I just thought that you didn’t—_ _

__“You were going away to school and I really wanted you to _go away to school._ Not have any ties here. Nothing holding you back. Not even me.” Derek is looking out the window while he says this and speaking faster than normal. “My mistake, I guess. Because I missed you like crazy and I regretted saying it and I wasn’t following you around, like you said. I just. I kept finding you. By accident.”_ _

__“Haha,” Stiles says._ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“I’m. Uh. I’m really sorry about last night.”_ _

__“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” Derek says. “Except maybe the last part.”_ _

__“I can try to make it up to you,” Stiles says and grins._ _

__“Oh, you will.” And Derek grins, too. And Stiles leans over then, slowly, tentatively, and waits for Derek to lean over too, meeting him halfway. The kiss is light, a brushing of lips, warm and coffee-scented with the underlying aroma of vomit. It’s not entirely awful._ _

__“Hey, Derek?”_ _

__“What.”_ _

__“What part of the car is the laziest?” Stiles says against Derek’s lips._ _

__Derek smiles._ _

__“The wheels. Because they’re always tired.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

_Lesson Five and a Half_

__“Derek’s here,” John calls from the living room. Stiles skids on the throw rug as he races down the hallway._ _

__“What?” He peers out the front window. Sure enough, Derek and his car are in the drive. “But. We don’t have a lesson scheduled. And it’s—” He checks his phone. “It’s 9 pm.”_ _

__“Maybe it’s night driving,” John says, not looking up from his laptop. He seems completely unconcerned. “I did ask him to cover all the bases.”_ _

__“All the bases,” Stiles repeats faintly. “Allllll the bases.” He laughs._ _

__John looks up. “What’s the matter with you?”_ _

__“I don’t have time to make a list.” Stiles pulls on his coat and jams his feet into his shoes and races out the front door to find Derek in the driver’s seat. He rolls the window down._ _

__Derek stares straight ahead. He’s gripping the wheel and clenching his teeth so hard Stiles can hear enamel creaking._ _

__“What are you doing here?”_ _

__“You need more practice,” Derek says at last._ _

__“But—”_ _

__“You need more practice.” Derek says again._ _

__“You didn’t tell me.”_ _

__“I’m telling you now.”_ _

__“I could have been busy.” Stiles is vaguely indignant. “You could have been interrupting something.”_ _

__Derek finally looks at him. His eyes are sharp and his mouth is tight. “Are you busy? Am I interrupting something?”_ _

__Stiles frowns. He sighs. “What’s on the menu then?”_ _

__“Parking,” Derek says through clenched teeth._ _

__Stiles grins, slow and wide and knowing. “But I don’t need more practice parking.” He says. “ _Officer_.”_ _

__“ _I_ need more practice.” Derek bites his lip, bites back a tiny smile._ _

__Stiles grins._ _

__Derek drives. He executes a perfect reverse park into a dark, deserted parking spot, takes a deep breath and turns to face Stiles. Stiles blinks._ _

__“So, what kind of practice were you thinking about—”_ _

__Derek leans across the console and kisses Stiles softly on the lips. Stiles is startled but leans into it, opens to it, responds with a soft tongue and the light bite of teeth. Then there is quickening breath and hands sliding, cold on warm skin, palms pressing on ribs and hip bones, pushing on hardening cocks and suddenly there isn’t enough room at all for everything Stiles wants to do, not nearly enough room. But he’s a creative guy, he make do with what he has to work with, and he remembers Derek’s body and what Derek likes and how to get him to respond, and there are certain spots Derek likes best and Stiles remembers them all. Derek breathes his name on an expelled gasp when he comes, lips hot and wet against Stiles’ neck, fingers clenching at his back, and Stiles tumbles after him, quiet and soft and sated._ _

__“Ok,” Stiles breathes warm into the corner of Derek’s jaw. “Ok. Yeah. Star student. You pass.” He kisses him again. “With honours.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

_Lesson Five and Three Quarters_

__“I leave a few days after Christmas,” Stiles says out of nowhere. They’re sitting in the CoffeeExpress drive-thru for Stiles’ third cup of the day. “I’ll be back for some weekends. Like lots of weekends maybe.” He sucks in a breath. “And maybe we can text each other again. I’d be ok with that if you are.”_ _

__Derek nods. “Yeah. I’d fine ok with that.” He pauses. “And when you’re home we can maybe see each other.”_ _

__“Just the two of us?”_ _

__“Yeah.” Derek breathes out. “Yeah. Just the two of us.”_ _

__“But not driving lessons?”_ _

__“I think you’re all good now.” Derek squeezes his hand. “Once you get the sleeping thing under control.”_ _

__“I’m working on it.”_ _

__“Maybe start with some decaf.”_ _

__“Ha ha.” Stiles clears his throat. “So, to be clear, texting and hanging out together alone but not driving lessons so like. Dates?”_ _

__“Yeah.” Derek squares his shoulders and looks directly at Stiles. “Dates. Dating. Yes.”_ _

__Stiles pays for his coffee, pulls through, idles in the lot for a minute._ _

__“Where to?”_ _

__“You’re the driver,” Derek says. “You’re in charge.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

_Bonus Lesson_

__“Didn’t you have all your lessons?” John asks over his shoulder to Stiles. Derek Hale is standing on their doorstep, pink-cheeked, slightly embarrassed, hands in his pockets, completely adorable._ _

__“Uh,” says Stiles._ _

__“He did, actually,” Derek says and he’s _stammering_. “I just thought we’d cover a few more things.”_ _

__“It’s Christmas Eve,” John says as Stiles is pulling on his jacket. He looks at the clock. “It’s almost _midnight_.”_ _

__“It sure is.”_ _

__“We won’t be long, sir,” Derek says quickly and Stiles laughs. “What?”_ _

__“Nothing, _sir._ ”_ _

__“Knock it off.”_ _

__John frowns. “Well, you’re welcome to join us tomorrow for breakfast, Derek. Stiles, make sure Derek comes—”_ _

__“Oh, he’ll be _coming_ —”_ _

__“ _Stiles!_ ” Derek grabs his arm and pulls him roughly out the door and hustles him into the car where everything is warm and smells strongly of cinnamon. With an underlying aroma of puke._ _

__“Is this a date?” Stiles asks as they drive through the quiet and dark streets of Beacon Hills, past quiet and still houses, some with their lights still on, the greens and reds and blues._ _

__“Maybe?” Derek says, looking over. “Kind of?”_ _

__“Hmm,” Stiles says. “Will you take me on another one? A real date? In public?”_ _

__“Do you want that?”_ _

__“Uh, yeah?”_ _

__Derek stares at him, mouth slightly open. “Ok.”_ _

__“Promise?”_ _

__Derek just keeps staring._ _

__“Eyes on the road, Officer.”_ _

__Derek does a wide circle of the town, one hand on the wheel and one holding Stiles, which Stiles is sure isn’t legal, but hell if he’s going to complain. They pull up in front of the Stilinski house and Derek cuts the engine and turns to face him, tries to lean over and gets caught up in the seatbelt._ _

__“Ugh,” Stiles says. “Seatbelts. The condoms of cars.”_ _

__The clock hits 12:01. Stiles looks over. “Merry Christmas,” he says._ _

__“Merry Christmas,” Derek says, and kisses him like a promise._ _

__

__//_ _

__

__“So,” John says over pancakes and turkey bacon and oatmeal and orange juice the next morning. “Did he pass?”_ _

__“Flying colours, Pops,” Stiles yells. “Flying. Colours.”_ _

__John sighs and turns to Derek, cocks his head. “Well?” He leans in conspiratorially, like they’re buddies. “Seriously. You can be totally honest.”_ _

__Derek nods furiously, cheeks gone red. “He uh. He did good. Very good. Great, even. He’s uh. Yeah. Road safe. Road worthy.”_ _

__“Huh,” John says, leaning back, puzzled but pleased. “Good to know. And thank you. I owe you.”_ _

__“Oh no. You don’t,” Derek says and now his ears are red, too._ _

__“You really don’t,” Stiles adds._ _

__“But _you_ owe me,” John says placidly. “$400. Still.”_ _

__“He’s a good driver,” Derek says. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about any more accidents. He’s learned a lot. We both have.” He swallows hard. “I mean, he’s good. Awesome.”_ _

__“Well,” Stiles says, tucking his ankle around Derek’s under the table. “I did have an awesome teacher.”_ _

__

__//_ _

__

__Stiles stops by the day he’s due to drive back. He pulls up to Derek’s house slowly, carefully reverse parks while checking his mirrors. He puts the battered, blue, seen-better-days but recently repaired Jeep in park, shuts off the engine, takes a huge, steadying breath and hops out as Derek comes down the front steps and wait._ _

__“Well,” Stiles says. He has both hands jammed in his back pockets and the toe of one sneaker keeps digging into the dirt._ _

__“Well,” says Derek. “Drive safe.”_ _

__“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Stiles says, grinning and looking down. “I’ll text when I get there.” He pauses, shrugs. “I mean if you _want_.”_ _

__“I want.”_ _

__“Ok. Good. Good. Cuz now that you’ve got me, you’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”_ _

__“Good,” Derek says like he means it, like it’s dumb for Stiles to suggest otherwise._ _

__Stiles grins, reaches up and throws his arms around Derek’s neck, pushes his face into the side of his face, kissing the warm skin there._ _

__“Hey, Derek,” he whispers. “What has 10 letters and starts with g-a-s?”_ _

__“What, Stiles?”_ _

__“Automobile.” He laughs a little, then kisses Derek once twice three times on the cheek, the jaw, the mouth._ _

__He climbs in and buckles up and Derek comes to stand by the window, leaning down and kissing him once more, softly, on the mouth._ _

__“Eyes on the road, Stiles.”_ _

__Derek watches him drive away, slowly, cautiously, until he gets to the main road and kind of guns it, just a bit. Derek sighs._ _

__Just before the Jeep disappears from view, Stiles sticks his arm out the window and waves and waves and waves._ _

__

__//_ _


End file.
